Malkos' Prophecy
by ICRepresentative
Summary: Malkos never believed the prophecy. That his heart would be ripped from his chest. Really, something that violent in Balmora would never happen... right? One shot.


**Disclaimer**: Bethesda Software owns Morrowind.

**A/N:** I got this idea when I was playing Morrowind. I arrive via silt-strider in Balmora, and there was the thickest fog I had ever seen. Out loud and completely spontaneously, I said the opening sentence. And the idea for this story was born. I also got a weird look from my brother, who was playing Halo on Xbox nearby.

* * *

A heavy fog hung low over Balmora. 

Malkos pulled the collar of his cloak tighter across his neck and frowned. He'd never seen mist this thick in Balmora before. And he'd seen all kinds of weather here. He shivered, involuntarily, and again, the words of the wise woman replayed in his head.

'_Thirteen moons and a day shall pass, and a darkness shall fall upon a Hlaalu town… A creature of shadows and darkness, a creature of fangs and claws, a creature who is shunned by its own kind but loved by another… When your son sets foot in the town on the appointed day, this creature will rip the heart from his chest_.'

Stuff of nonsense. Babbles and dreams and _nothing_. But his parents had exchanged worried glances that night, long ago, in the wise woman's yurt. Mentally (and completely in jest since he did not want to risk bringing down the anger of the gods on them) Malkos cursed them both - superstitious interfering busybodies. That's why he'd left, changed his name, become an apprentice at the Fighter's Guild. To earn respect. To make his own way in the world.

To prove that stupid prophecy wrong.

He'd come to Balmora many times before, and nothing had happened. Nothing at all. He was well-known here, well respected. He got nods from the locals, and heard stories - slightly exaggerated, of course - about his exploits. Yes, he'd visited Balmora many times before. It had been a long time since he'd seen his family. How long was it? Ah, let's see…

Malkos stopped dead in his tracks, the slow cold realisation dawning. Despite himself, he shivered in fear. It had been three months, a week, and a day - thirteen moons and a day - since he'd left his home. And Balmora… well, Balmora was a Hlaalu town, was it not?

"Get a hold of yourself," Malkos muttered, his voice falling flat in the fog, "Superstitions are for the weak and foolish." He pulled his cape closer around himself, nevertheless - something about the fog was unnatural.

'_A darkness shall fall…_'

Oh, gods have mercy… Malkos shook himself. "Weak and foolish!" He reminded himself, and resumed his walk through town.

As he walked, he idly reached for the amulet his father had given him as a parting gift. A fist-shaped medallion made from pure gold. A family heirloom, one that showed him to be his father's son. It wasn't much - Malkos' parents were poor guar herders, barely able to get by, what with the strange weather, the bandits, and now those creatures coming out of the hills…

Malkos allowed himself one sliver of pity for his parents. After all, they had raised him… even if it was on omens and dreams and charms. Pfaugh. If you wanted to live, take up a sword, and make your own destiny!

Malkos patted the broadsword strapped to his waist like a hunter would pet a faithful hound. Soon, he'd have enough money to put an enchantment on it. Give it some extra bite for when he wanted to really bring down a foe. No creature would be able to stand against him when…

'_A creature of fang and claws… A creature of shadows and darkness…'_

"Excuse me, sera."

Malkos yelped, and nearly jumped out of his skin. He whirled. "Who's there!" He barked. "Show yourself!" His hand was on the hilt of his sword

A figure emerged from the mist, chuckling dryly. "Forgiveness I beg, sera. Frighten you, I did not mean." A mangy khajiit stepped out from the mist. One of the creature's eyes stared off to the left, while the other was focused hungrily on Malkos' face. "Moment of sera's time, this pitiful creature does ask."

Malkos looked the beggar up and down. Pitiful creature was right. The khajiit's fur was mangy and mostly missing, revealing patches of skin that flaked and peeled. Its tail looked broken, twisted at an odd angle. An open sore on the creature's neck oozed pus and blood. And every now and then, the khajiit would twitch involuntarily.

"You have a disease," Malkos said, stepping back in disgust.

The cross-eyed khajiit nodded, its head bobbing up and down like a toy on a string. It wrung its clawed hands together. "Foul pestilence indeed, S'Renji suffers. Aid for a khajiit, S'Renji asks sera?" The khajiit smiled in an effort to put the man more at ease, but looked more like it was entertaining the thought of tearing out Malkos' throat.

"What do you want?" Malkos asked uneasily. Was it his imagination, or was the fog getting thicker?

"A few pieces of gold, S'Renji asks sera," the khajiit stretched out its arms towards Malkos. "Enter the temple, I must. Pay the healer I must." The diseased khajiit's good eye suddenly glinted. "Pretty thing , this sera wears. Worth much gold, S'Renji asks?"

Malkos lifted his hand to protect his amulet. "No." He frowned. "Not worth anything."

"Shiny, shiny. Pretty, pretty." The khajiit advanced towards him, claws reaching for the amulet.

"Stay away from me, you filthy beast!" Malkos backed away, loath to draw his sword. If the poor creature was nothing more than a beggar, then he would have to run from the guards for striking an unarmed… Oh, by the gods, look at it! There would be no way a guard could arrest him for fighting this!

"Go away, diseased creature!" Malkos drew his sword, his temper gone. "Before I have to strike you down!" The khajiit's eye remained fixed on the amulet, and a growl issued from its throat. Malkos refused to feel fear - this piece of outlander refuse dared to threaten him! "Guards! Guards!"

The khajiit continued to advance. "To S'Renji come, shiny thing!" It crooned, then hissed at Malkos, "Dunmer must give shiny! To S'Renji it must belong!"

"Guards!" Malkos called one last time. He sensed he was being backed up against a wall. Gods, that was _it_! He swung his sword at the khajiit, and felt a dim spark of satisfaction as he felt it slice through bone.

The cat reared back, hissing and howling in rage. It clutched its shrivelled hand, now minus several fingers. Its ears went back, and it growled. It lowered itself to its haunches, as though preparing to leap at him. Blood dripped from what was left of its fingers and pooled on the ground.

"Oh, Gods, go away!" Malkos said, almost sobbing. He swung his sword in desperate arcs, forgetting all his training at the thought of catching the khajiit's horrible disease… _No_, a part of Malkos' subconscious whispered, _You're more afraid of the Khajiit itself. And of the prophecy_. "Stay away from me!"

And suddenly, the diseased beggar was gone.

"If I were you, I'd put that away," a calm voice said, "The guards aren't coming, but if someone saw you, they will be."

Malkos looked up, and through the mist saw a warrior standing in front of him. From the way the warrior was wearing their armour, and from the way they carried themselves, it was obvious that the warrior was a woman. Malkos felt a wave of shame was over him. Saved by a woman. And a woman outlander at that! How humiliating! From a slit in a horned mask, two intelligent ice-blue eyes stared out at him. "You look like you need a drink," the woman's voice commented with a laugh. "I've never seen a black-face so pale!"

"Watch your tongue, outlander," Malkos snapped. "I'll not have jokes made at my expense."

"No?" The woman-warrior tilted her head on one side, "You'd rather be attacked by a deranged and diseased beggar in the mist? You'd rather be attacked by a creature who knows how to leap from shadow to shadow? You'd rather have a chat with a creature that knows how to use its claws and teeth better than you know how you use your own…" She pointed with her sword at Malkos' crotch and wagged it derisively. "Well?"

Malkos opened his mouth to argue, then suddenly stopped. "What did you say?"

'_Creature of darkness… Creature of fangs and claws…Shunned by its own kind…_'

"I said…" But she got no further. With a yowl, S'Renji leapt from off the rooftops and landed on Malkos, and began clawing at his face. Malkos screamed, and tried to raise up his sword, but the khajiit kicked him in the gut, winding him.

"MINE!" The khajiit screeched. "MINE BE SHINY!" Malkos felt clawed hands wrap around his throat, and found himself eye-to-eye with the demented creature.

"By the gods!" The woman gasped. Malkos sensed she was trying to help him, but he was too busy trying to save his own skin. He dropped his sword and tried to pry the creature's hands from around his neck. The pustule on the khajiit's neck burst, spraying Malkos' face with pus. He nearly screamed as it went in his eyes, his mouth, but he couldn't breathe…

_This isn't supposed to be how it ends_! Malkos thought furiously. _It's supposed to tear the heart from my chest!_

"Get off him, you…!" The woman grabbed the cat around the waist, and tried to pull him away. But S'Renji kept a firm grip on Malkos' neck, even as he was being pulled away. So the woman got a firmer hold around the cat's ribcage… and began to squeeze. Wrapped in a crushing bear-hug, the khajiit S'Renji began to struggle for it's own life. It thrashed and hissed and spat, and tried to turn and scratch the woman's eyes out. But for the metal mask she wore, the creature might have succeeded.

Malkos gasped for air, wiped his face, and staggered to his feet. It was no illusion. The mist was getting thicker. All he could see was a vague writhing shape - he couldn't tell which one was the woman and which one was the creature.

"For heaven's sake, pick up your sword!" The woman bellowed.

Malkos did so, the adrenaline coursing through his body. Giving a short battlecry, he rushed forward.

At that instant, the khajiit broke free of the woman's grasp and leapt for him, claws outstretched and fangs bared.

And Malkos remembered the prophecy. And he faltered.

The sword clattered on the stony ground. The khajiit howled with triumph. The woman screamed.

"NO!"

S'Renji looked up at the woman, his muzzle stained with blood. He grinned savagely, then loped off on all fours, silently, agilely, into the mist. The woman let the diseased monster go - she ran instead to the Dunmer, knelt by his side, and pulled a small glass bottle from her pack.

"Don't you dare die on me, Dunmer!" She hissed at the silent prone form of Malkos. She opened his mouth and poured the contents of the bottle down his throat. "Don't you dare die!"

The woman watched, silently, hoping, praying… and then, the man coughed, spluttered, gasped for air. She sighed, relieved.

"Praise the Nine!" She smiled. "You're alive!"

"That stuff tasted foul, woman."

The warrior rolled her eyes. "You're welcome." She slid her mask off and shook her hair free. "I need a drink. What about you? It'll be my shout." She put the helmet under her arm.

Malkos sat up, blinking. "I don't understand," He stammered, patting his hands over his chest. "The prophecy said that…"

"Hold up," the warrior frowned at him, "Prophecy?"

Malkos looked up at the face of the woman. "I was supposed to die." He bit his lip, then staggered to his feet. The woman handed him his sword. His hand shook as he received it.

"What did the prophecy say, exactly?" She asked him, cautiously.

"That a creature of darkness and shadow, shunned by its own kind, using claws and fangs, would rip the heart from my chest." His eyes widened. "I was dead, wasn't I? That potion you gave me… brought me back to life?" He stared in wide-eyed wonder at the warrior. "I owe you my life, sera." He started to kneel, but she stopped him.

"Nay, lad," she said with a chuckle, "I didn't save your life. That potion I gave you was a cure for whatever diseases that thing might've given you." She winced. "That would not be pretty."

"Then…" Malkos frowned. "My heart…"

The woman tilted her head to one side, considering. "What was that beggar after?"

"Money," Malkos said, "So he could go to the healer…" He stopped, and his eyes widened. "No, he wanted my amulet!" Malkos reached for it, but it was gone. He swore. "That n'wah stole my amulet!"

The woman seemed faintly amused. "Even in the mist, I could see it was shaped like a fist. The heart of most outlanders and Dunmer are the size - sometimes even the shape - of a fist. I should know - I've seen a lot during my bounty hunter days. Does that answer any questions?"

'_The creature will tear the heart from his chest._'

Malkos gaped.

The warrior smiled, and extended her hand. "I'm Pallas, by the way. The offer for a drink still stands, stranger."

Malkos stared, still stunned with his recent brush with death. "My name is Malkos, my lady." He smiled back at the woman, and felt the fear of the prophecy vanish. "And I think I'll take you up on your offer."

The woman smiled, and a dimple showed. Malkos smiled back - he had to admit, the woman was rather pretty… for a Nord.

"Well, come on then," she turned and started walking through the mist, "I know where we can get Cyrodilic brandy at half-price."

Malkos laughed, then followed behind her.

His father had saved his life. That amulet, that family heirloom, had fulfilled the prophecy. Hastily, Malkos sent up a prayer to any and every god that was listening - for the amulet, for Pallas' intervention… and most of all, that the prophesy did not have the literal meaning that his parents had feared.

"Are you coming or not?" Pallas called over her shoulder. She flicked her hips at him as she opened the door to a tavern and slid inside.

After a moment's minor inflection, Malkos sent up another quick prayer, then grinned and followed behind the woman.

-

"Shiny, shiny, shiny…" S'Renji sang to himself as he swung the amulet back and forth in front of his good eye. He grinned. His ribs were bruised, three of his fingers had been cut off, and the sore on his neck had not stopped bleeding. But he'd finally gotten what he wanted. Something special to call his very own.

"Belong to S'Renji, you do," he told the fist-shaped amulet as he slipped it over his head. "Take you from me, no-one shall."

He smiled lopsidedly as the amulet slid over to his heart. He poked it with one of his good claws. "Shiny, shiny… Belong to S'Renji…"

A shadow fell across S'Renji's hiding place. He looked up, hissing, his ears flat against his skull. "Hsss! Be there be who! Steal my shiny, have you come! HSSS!" What was left of his fur stood up.

The wind seemed to die. It was silent. And getting mistier and mistier… And darker and darker…

The mist seemed to get thicker and thicker. S'Renji hissed again and again, each time with less force and enthusiasm.

"Be gone, you must!" He whimpered. "Belong to me, this does!"

THAT IS NOT YOUR AMULET.

A darker shadow materialised just above the khajiit's head. A shadow cloaked in darkness. It peered down at him.

YOU ARE CERTAIN IT IS YOURS?

S'Renji hissed at the shadow, having something visible to focus his rage on. "My shiny! Take it you won't! Belongs to S'Renji! Always has, always will!"

REALLY? WELL, IN THAT CASE…

S'Renji screamed as the shadow swooped down and tore the heart from his chest.


End file.
